Heavy Object: Fracture
by SoTaWoB
Summary: It's back to Alaska for the 37th CMB. The near disaster caused by the 'Mirror of Truth' is sending shock-waves through the Legitimate Kingdom, with Baby-Magnum's pilot at the center of it. The Battalion has always picked itself up and carried on, but when new orders come down the core team will have to do without one of their most important members.
1. Chapter I

"Granny, I'm here! I'm sorry I'm late!" he yelled out into the hangar, ignoring the snickers of the actual engineers. "My roommate had kicked my boots under my bunk!"

A loud clang of metal sounded from one of the catwalks above his head.

"You should have been here half an hour ago!"

"I'm sorry!"

"Apologize to the commander, boy! Her aid came looking for you and I had to tell her you weren't here. Get your thick skull over to her office before the Princess gets impatient!"

"Crap... I'll be right there!"

As Qwenthur ran back out of the hangar and navigated around various Base-Zone personnel, he wondered what exactly had he done this time to incur the wrath of the commander. No matter how many times the base was packed down and reconstructed he knew the way to her office better than the back of his hand. Havia and he always managed to talk each other into something stupid.

 _At least on the battlefield we regret it immediately. Around the base there is no telling when someone will catch us out on something or Froleytia will slam our separate quarters with a porn check._

"Hey, you're later than me." said a soldier coming from another corridor ahead.

Qwenthur smirked and punched the man's shoulder as he passed him by. "I'm going first though."

He suddenly jerked to a halt as Havia's fingers hooked into his collar.

"Oi, why are we called up this time?" the young nobleman asked, serious concern on his face. "We haven't pulled any stupid stunts since we moved back to Alaska. There was only that thing with the chair while Baby Magnum was in for repairs on the e-stat drive."

Qwenthur shrugged. "I don't think I did anything. I assumed it was you this time."

"Thanks, Havia, for saving my ass on dozens of occasions." Havia snorted. He gave him a shove as a means of releasing him, only to shake his head and run a hand through his brown hair.

The blond engineering student let slip a sly grin. "I thought you were the type who only needs the underside of Froleytia's boots as a reward."

"I don't want to hear that coming from a guy who has a thing for ladies' armpits." Havia sighed, giving his boot a kick to set them both moving again. "So, no idea what this is about, then."

"Not a clue. Granny only said an aid came looking for me."

The two young men paused to straighten their arctic camo operation uniforms, cycled a few deep breaths, then Havia hit the door release and it slid into its recess. They filed in and to their surprise found they were not the only ones before their commander.

Three females were already in the Japanese styled room. Major Froleytia Capistrano sat on a cushion behind her low desk and the battalion's teenaged Elite sat in front to one side on another. A young woman with vaguely familiar fiery orange hair tailed down her left side knelt on the bare mats beside the desk. She wore the uniform of an officer like the Major, but neither man could place her face despite their frequent visits to the heart of the Base-Zone. As she briefly examined them in two seconds flat they noticed her eyes were an unnaturally deep green.

"You two were slow." said the blond girl, not a hint of emotion sneaking through her composure.

Qwenthur and Havia shared a glance and swallowed. Melinda Brantini always perked up at the sight of the former. Something was up if she was all business. They quickly knelt down next to their 'Princess' like the ginger, somewhat glad they were used to the foreign customs the commander entertained.

"Now then, let's get right to it." Capistrano began, as formal as if there was a black uniform in the room. "The Baby Magnum will soon be completely repaired and upgraded as much as can be, given its designed purpose. The Thirty Seventh Mobile Maintenance Battalion is almost back to full strength, but we will be stationed here in Alaska for some time."

Qwenthur resisted the urge to question her. While she was the most relaxed commander he was aware of, Major Capistrano was talking now, not Miss Froleytia. He was sure Havia was thinking something along those lines as well.

"Command is in a panic. That someone could strike right at an Elite while they are piloting their Object calls all of our operations into question. The Legitimate Kingdom is maintaining a defensive posture across all fronts and for once the general military is working hard to track down any potential cyber-attacks before they can take effect."

The Major paused to take a deep breath, then exhaled and glared down at her tablet on the desk. "As our battalion's Object control was successfully subverted we will be testing new measures against cyber-attacks. Another Object will provide security... But..."

The redhead's slight dip of her head did not go unnoticed by the three so-called heroes.

"Command has ordered that First Lieutenant Melinda Brantini is to stand down as pilot of the Baby Magnum and another Elite will run through the tests."

"What?!"

The three of them jumped slightly at the shock and venom in each other's voices, then recoiled as Capistrano slammed a fist down next to her tablet. The protests of the stylus in her other hand cut off any further objections.

With a dark scowl the woman looked up and fixed each of them with an even stare. "I cannot over turn or bend these orders. Until we can be absolutely certain there is no lasting effects on her mind the Princess is not to enter the cockpit."

"But I'm alright now!" Melinda gasped.

"You've got to be kidding!" Havia snapped, lunging forward onto his fists. "What are we supposed to do if an Object attacks before our back up arrives? Fight it on foot without support? Fuck that!"

"The testing Elite is already here." Capistrano gritted out, slowly placing her mangled stylus down. "She will sortie as a last resort."

Qwenthur pulled Havia back in line. "But Froleytia, the Princess is the most familiar with Baby Magnum's controls and nuances which could be the difference between life and death with a general first-generation Object. The test pilot might lose against a second gen."

Capistrano sighed heavily. "Command believes you two will be able to even the odds at the very least. Also, the test Elite was trained for a more complex second-generation Object. She should have little trouble adjusting to Baby Magnum - on paper."

Suddenly it dawned on them. Melinda turned her attention to the ginger haired officer, quickly followed by Qwenthur and Havia.

Capistrano cleared her throat. "This is Special Situational Assistant Analyst Coira Cunningham. She completed her Elite training but has since transferred about several battalions, until joining us after the Tri-core operation."

"I... Apologise for the intrusion." the redhead said with sincerity and a politely inclined head, despite her flat tone. "I hope I can suffice until the Princess is cleared for duty."

Qwenthur spared a glance at Melinda and immediately wished he hadn't been privy to that deadly expression.

"Private Havia Winchell, report to the radar station in operations. Cunningham's workload will be your problem for now. First Lieutenant Melinda Brantini, you have your regular exercises and tuning sessions to attend. A technician will be arriving with our backup to evaluate any possible side effects of the cyber-attack on your brain." Capistrano eyed the girl as a warning, then turned a measured glare on Qwenthur. "You will be helping with repairs and tests on the Baby Magnum. This is why you are with my battalion in the first place. No mistakes."

The student swallowed. He got the short straw this time: Havia can't screw up watching for scanner pings, but anything could go wrong with machines.

Capistrano rubbed her temples, then picked up her Japanese pipe and clamped her teeth down on it. "If you have any questions, ask your department heads. I have a mountain of paper and data work to get done. Special Assistant, stay for a bit. The rest of you are dismissed."

Qwenthur, Havia and the Princess silently stood and filed out of the Major's office. They walked a way down the hall before Havia stopped and let out a ragged exhale.

"Seriously, this is the pits. Titan tits must have a lot on her plate to give a briefing like that."

Qwenthur had to agree. He looked over at Melinda but she was facing down the hall. "Princess, are you alright?"

"This... Is so... Humiliating." she uttered quietly, barely suppressing a shiver. "After I ejected the effect of the Mirror of Truth was broken. I saw what had happened with my own eyes, not the distorted interface of my Object. We already ran dozens of brain scans and perception drills..."

"Damn honchos back in safe nation." Havia muttered.

Qwenthur sighed. "I'm sure the battalion will be back to normal in no time. They'll see you're just as fit for operation as always."

"I'm perfectly battle ready!" she snapped, spinning to face them even as she scowled at the deck. "All the tests came back clear, but still they put me on standby. Then they take away my Object...and even replace me."

He put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze. "The guys in charge are idiots. Froleytia won't let them keep you grounded for long. You are our Princess after all." he said with a hopeful smile.

She relaxed somewhat. "If Flide-chicken was still alive I'd roast him with slowly my plasma canons turned down low."

Qwenthur and Havia flinched at the perfect monotone.

The door to Capistrano's office opened again and the redheaded officer stepped out. Once she saw them looking at her the Elite walked over to them with strangely heavy steps. She saluted sharply, putting them all on edge. There was something very unusual about her walk. Up close they could gauge her age better. She was older than the major, and maybe even Havia - the only one of the trio who was old enough to be a soldier by pre-Object standards.

"Uh, Coira Cunningham, was it?" Qwenthur ventured.

She nodded. "I apologise again, for becoming a fifth wheel like this. You three and the major are tight-knit, and the battalion likes that." she said stiffly. "I've never piloted an Object during a real operation and never believed I would get back in one again. I'm just as shocked as you are. Still, orders are orders."

Qwenthur's brow shot up.

"What do you mean you never piloted during an operation?" Havia asked, frowning at the implications.

Coira sighed quietly but kept her composure. "I had an... Accident while in training. It didn't stop me meeting any performance targets but it was decided I shouldn't be deployed. My object went to another Elite while I was recovering anyway, so I was reassigned to the engineering corps."

"Oh, now I remember. I saw you around the hanger a few times when not much was going on." Qwenthur thought aloud, recalling flashes of orange. "The Oceania operation."

Coira nodded. "I also saw you hanging from a construction arm twenty-five meters up in the air."

The blond flinched.

"Oi, I'm pretty sure you were on guard duty back when that annoying magazine reporter dropped in." Havia butted in. "You were on camera once or twice."

"I've moved postings often. I get bored." the Elite replied without hesitation. "At that time, I was on the protective detail making sure the film crew didn't go anywhere dangerous. I've been back in operations this month, but it looks like the battalion won't be seeing any action for a while."

Havia shook his head and put a hand on her shoulder. "Miss, you should know by now that when you say something like that then we will definitely be seeing some action."

"And not the kind Froleytia usually gives us." Qwenthur added with a knowing smirk. "The kind that finds us first."

Coira frowned. "The Thirty-Seventh has defended Alaska twice from second generation Objects. I doubt there will be a third time."

Qwenthur shrugged, then his phone pinged. He pulled it out and flinched. "Crap, granny needs a bunch of parts asap. I better run. It was nice to meet you, Cunningham."

Havia chuckled at his comrade's hasty departure.

"/ /Havia, get your butt over to operations./ /"

"Oh hell..."

Capistrano's disapproving grunt carried over the radio with remarkable clarity. "/ /Now, Winchell./ /"

The man jogged off muttering things unintelligible.

His departure had the side effect of leaving the two Elites standing awkwardly in the hall. Melinda stared at her replacement with barely concealed resentment. Despite this Cunningham stood perfectly straight and maintained her composure.

"Orders are that you must not enter the cockpit of Baby Magnum until cleared by the technician. They said nothing about proximity." the redhead stated plainly. "I believe it would be beneficial if you accompanied me to the hangar and instructed me on your Object's operation."

The Princess's fists tightened and her upper lip twitched. "You're an Elite, aren't you? Figure it out yourself!"


	2. Chapter II

Qwenthur sighed for what felt like the hundredth time. There was only so much he could do with a full maintenance crew on base. The aviation crew had their jet-tugs fitted with snow ploughs. The security patrols were using small vehicles with ploughs too. Standing guards shoveled the rest of the snow off the traffic-ways every morning. The Major had tightened up every aspect of the battalion and was tolerating no relaxing of procedure or regulations. 'Titan-tits' had become 'Tyrant-tits'. Any department caught with inefficiencies got a reprimand over the PA system. Nobody dared test her after the second time.

Anyone would think they were the military or something.

Granny was having to find things for him and the maintenance crew to do just to keep them out of trouble. Even then a man could only take things apart, clean and put them back together so many times before going insane.

Qwenthur was starting to scribble down some designs for Object armaments, drive mechanisms and dabbling in the software on occasion. The boredom was allowing his creativity to sprout. It was the other Base-Zone personnel he was beginning to worry about. After months of serving an over-achieving Object the static nature of this deployment was demoralising.

"I wonder what Havia is up to." he sighed, leaning on the catwalk railing and watching some of the crew clean the floor. "He's got the nice and warm operations room, but I don't envy spending time under Froleytia."

"Why not?"

Qwenther jumped and whirled about. "I don't mean- huh?"

To his consternation nobody else was on the catwalk. Nor was anyone on the one above him.

"Down here."

He looked down over the edge but found nobody nearby. Something tapped his boot and he sprang across to the other side of the catwalk in fright.

"What the hell?"

"You've got a good jump." the voice said through a grunt.

Qwenthur looked down and found an orange shape moving around under the grating. First a set of fingers appeared at the edge where he had been standing, then a hand grasped the first bar of the creaking metal railing. Hand over hand the person climbed the railing, then hung from the top just able to see over the deck. The metal groaned in a decidedly dangerous way.

Unnatural green eyes blinked twice at him. "I thought you and Winchel liked working with the Major."

"Were you... Hanging from the catwalk?"

Coira cycled a deep breath, then hauled herself above the railing. The blond student couldn't quite avert his gaze fast enough and enjoyed watching the Elite's breasts squeeze over each bar of the railing, her unzipped orange jumpsuit slipping open to reveal her sweat soaked white singlet. She paused with her arms extended, giving him precious few seconds to compose himself, then swung from side to side and rolled over the railing.

Her boots hit the grating with a loud clang. The vibration travelled all the way up his spine - either that or he couldn't suppress the shiver of pleasure and embarrassment as she rolled her shoulders and pushed out her chest.

"W-well, um... Frole- er, Major Capistrano is under a lot of pressure lately, so... Well..."

"She is giving everyone a hard time." the redhead nodded in understanding. "I was surprised when she growled at me for wearing my uniform in the Baby Magnum. Now I'm stuck with overalls."

Qwenthur could still feel heat on his face, so he latched onto the Elite's words. "Overalls? Not a pressure suit like the Princess?"

"Haven't had one for years." she replied while twisting her arms in a familiar looking stretch. "I hate those anyway. As I'm the battalion Elite for the time being I have someone to help tape up my hands and arms, so I wont faint during highspeed turns. It will be hard to move my fingers, so I've been training a bit while I'm free."

"Um... Why were you under the catwalk?"

"I was bored." she sniffed. "Until they want me to drive her around I have little to do. I needed the exercise anyway."

Qwenthur's brow rose. "Most people go jogging."

"Major Capistrano revoked my clearance for all exterior access ports, so the only way I'm getting outside is for tests. It's too bothersome to run inside the base buildings." Cunningham grumbled.

"Isn't it more dangerous to hang a dozen metres above the hangar floor? Someone could stand on your fingers, or you could fall." he countered. "What would we do if you broke your legs?"

The Elite looked at him sharply. "That's not going to happen."

Something clattered on the other side of the hangar, resulting in shouts and a loud crash. Qwenthur peered over the railing to have a look but the activity was hidden by one of the Baby Magnum's huge feet.

"You'd best go and help."

He looked back to the strange Elite with a question on his lips, but it vanished at the sight of the short side-tail behind her ear resting between her collarbones, like a tongue of fire. She leaned backward over the railing a little further next to him, then paused and spread her arms along and gripped it tightly. The action pushed out her chest again, and Qwenthur guiltily observed the widening of the jumpsuit zip.

"That old woman is looking this way, Barbotage."

With that last utterance she pushed off the catwalk and swung over the railing, dropping until her fingers caught the edge of the grating with a violent jolt. Then she was gone.

"Idiot boy! Don't you see we have a situation here?"

Qwenthur suddenly snapped out of his stupor, a cold sweat forming at his back. "I'll be right there!"

"Hurry! Bring the fork-hoist! Someone, get the insulation tape!"

* * *

Ambling along the corridor, Qwenthur breathed a sigh of relief. Just before lunch he got lost in thought and nearly broke something, but luckily it wasn't too serious and Granny couldn't chew him out for long.

It was common for his mind to drift, just not to that extent while he was working. It felt weird ever since Melinda was stood down. Knowing she wasn't going to be sitting in the cockpit, or taking the Baby Magnum into battle. The girl was wound up like a spring whenever he had seen her.

Qwenthur sighed again, pushing through the doors to the mess hall.

Havia was sitting at the far wall, so he waited in line just long enough to get today's lunch dished out to him and went over to join his friend. As he approached he noticed the slow and mechanical way Havia scooped up soup. The radar technician stared at the table with unfocused eyes and swallowed, not hurrying or savouring the taste.

"Havia, you look like a zombie. What's going on?"

The man paused, let the spoon fall from his fingers, then looked at him as he sat down. "Tyrant-tits." he stated, as if all the life had been drained out of him.

Qwenthur blinked. "What about her?"

"I've spent all my shift time working with her breathing down my neck. Operations feels like a tomb."

"Wouldn't her breath make your heart race, Havia?"

Havia bowed his head over his soup and sniffed. "She runs that place like a prison." he lamented. "The only curves I've gotten a good look at are the radar pings and the edge of the monitor."

"Oh... Guess Frolytia really is under pressure from the higher-ups." Qwenthur thought aloud, dipping bread into his own soup.

"Yes, and she puts all that pressure on us - but not with those amazing boobs." the nobleman muttered, gritting his teeth. "What's more... While I'm forced to stare at readouts... Someone gets to walk around, to play with his favourite machines, to eye up the new Elite on the job. It's not fair!"

Qwenthur ducked his head. "I don't ogle the-"

"Damnit, you already have the Princess! Why do you get to work with that beauty? She's so crisp and formal, yet with a sly way of letting on how much she knows... Must be a bad girl inside."

"Crisp?"

Havia gave him a glare, as if to say 'don't play dumb' and retrieved his spoon. "Somehow that ginger officer makes her uniform look perfectly pressed. The kinds of people who make that effort climb the ranks fast, but she hasn't gone anywhere. I checked." he grumbled. "A beauty like her should at least have been snatched up by some officer. She has the act down-pat, too. If Tyrant-tits had said she was her new assistant Id believe it in an instant."

Qwenthur furrowed his brow and tried the soup. It was bad. "Well, she was an Elite. Maybe she doesn't have the skills for other duties?"

"Being a personal assistant is easy if you look good in uniform." Havia countered. "Special Situational Assistant Analyst? I've never heard of such a rank. Turns out only fifty-five of them exist in the whole Legitimate Kingdom. She was the twenty-second, and the others aren't real people, just false identification files."

At his confused expression the man elaborated, after collecting his thoughts over a spoonful of soup.

"Spies and counter-spies, black uniforms, internal affairs - those kinds of agents use fake ID to prevent harm coming to their families or superiors. It's not advertised but well known. They don't even try to hide that they are fakes, only the real IDs of the agents. SSAA Cunningham is a real person though, working class nobility."

"You know quite a lot about her." the blond observed, risking the soup laden bread.

Havia snorted. "If I really did stare at that monitor the whole time I'd have gone mad. More like, Id have forced my way down to the hangar to see her squeeze into the Baby Magnum's cockpit. I envy you, Qwenthur, getting to see all those different curves all day and every day..."

"Actually, object cockpit chairs can rise all the way to the outside for ease of access." Qwenthur snorted. "Climbing up a ladder is too unsafe after extended battles. The strain could be too much for the Elite after all those highspeed manoeuvres. Instead of risking a broken leg they just press a button and up they go."

Havia grinned and ducked his head closer. "I wasn't talking about the hatch."

The student engineer hummed in thought. After quickly exhausting his imagination he too ducked close to learn this mysterious potential 'lucky-perv' information.

"Data from our physicals gets entered into our files, you know. That includes measurements."

Qwenthur's eyes went wide.

"I snuck a peek at the Princess' file and compared them." Havia continued. "The age gap is about six years. Our heroine wins the first round only just, but if you make it a best-of-three? That SSAA is a champion."

"How?"

Havia let him hang in suspense for a few moments to devour some bland bread, grinning still. "Her waist seems like a loss at first, but she has been part of the regular military for a while now. No special Elite treatment for Coira Cunningham. That waist is all muscle - bulging laterals and rock-hard abdominals."

Qwenthur's mind conjured up images from the times Frolytia had forced them to help her in the gym. The major took good care of herself and they appreciated the results.

"Now, hips. How much more do you think?"

"Uh... Ah... Ten centimetres? Too much?"

Havia smirked. "Nearly twenty."

 _Wow... Wait a second..._

"You get it now, don't you? If her hips are that much wider than the Princess' and she is going to sit in that custom chair... I've sat in one of the spares."

"The width of the body-form moulding..."

"She'll slowly get uncomfortable. She'll start to shift. To squirm. An uncertain and irritated blush upon her face... A moan of discomfort - maybe a pouting lower lip..."

"Sweat build-up from the excess movement..."

The pair chuckled, devouring their lunch faster than anyone in the room. The undesirable taste of a very lack-lustre meal was completely overshadowed by the guilty pleasure at the work of the human imagination. That same phenomena emboldened their appetite.

A loud and abrupt thud shook the table, breaking them from their musing.

"You like this crap that much?" a certain redhead asked with a single raised brow, setting down her tray. She immersed an entire slice of bread in her soup and stabbed it repeatedly with her spoon. "I'd prefer the ration bars."

Havia and Qwenthur shared a confused glance. Before the latter spoke up. "Don't you get the first-class menu now, Cunningham? What are you doing in the cafeteria?"

A shake of her head was followed by a spoonful of vegetable chunks and bloated bread vanishing at high speed. "Field rations contain all the nutrients modern soldiers need." she stated. "If I could have chicken or steak and what not I'd have to eat a lot more to get enough of everything."

Qwenthur couldn't stop the drool running out the corners of his mouth. Havia managed somehow - probably a nobleman's table manners.

The Elite with unnaturally consistent green eyes stared at them both for a minute, an expression on her face like one would have when discovering a pest infestation in the Base-Zone. "Never mind that. I want to know more about your thought process when you face enemy objects. How do you plan to take them down?"

The young men shared a look.

"Uh... We don't really have a process." Havia uttered, resigned.

Qwenthur scratched his head in thought. "Most of the time there isn't any plan. We're just using our knowledge of Objects and other things on the spot. Sometimes all we can to is survive a minute at a time."

Cunningham frowned and leaned forward over her bowl. "That explains why you two aren't instructing commando squads on how to destroy enemy Objects. It's not something you can teach, only learn."

"Sorry to be of no help." he offered nervously.

The Elite shrugged. "No worries." she said.

Coira then extracted the bloated bread from her bowl and stuffed the whole thing in her mouth. As their eyes widened at the rush of soup that escaped her closing jaws the woman chomped away quickly. With a mighty swallow Cunningham picked up the bowl and chugged the rest of it.

"If you'll excuse me, I have to begin acclimatising to the Baby Magnum's control systems."

As suddenly as she arrived the redhead departed, heavy footfalls shaking the deck plating.

After a moment of silence Havia and Qwenthur turned in their seats to watch her drop off her tray and stride quickly out of the mess hall.

"Oi oi, how can she completely lose all sense of decorum and still speak properly? That was such a vulnerable scene just now. Did you see her throat bulge?"

Qwenthur's face warmed up as the image replayed in his mind. "An amazing Elite, huh. Nothing at all like that Bright-Hopper guy or Ohoho, or the Princess."

"Once again, I am reminded of how much I envy you, lucky bastard. I stare at screens all day or run for my life from Objects, while you get to see sights like that..."

Qwenthur ducked his head and sighed, turning back his soup and bread. "You say that, but I am running for my life too. I experienced the shock first hand of learning G-cup mini-skirt Santa was really a no-cup chopping board."

"You felt-up Titan-tits."

"And I got my ass kicked for it."

"That's not a counter balance, you lucky perv. On the heli' during the Tri-core operation, right after Bright-Hopper, during Wing-Balancer - time and time again you get into these situations. What about the Princess, huh?"

The thought sent a chill through him. Melinda Brantini was beyond upset right now, and she had always responded to his strange fortune with retribution. To say she would be angry was an understatement, just like it would be to say his health would suffer.

"I don't want to die." he sighed pitifully.

Havia grunted. "Seriously, what a pain. Qwenthur, a little advice from a man of noble birth..."

The blond student perked up.

"Do something about your lack of awareness and you will know when to draw the line with other girls. You are too careless in your interactions so they receive signals they shouldn't. This is elementary for a white-collar young man - no, for any man or woman."

"Exactly! What are they teaching kids these days?"

The pair looked over their shoulders to find the chief engineer looming over them, fists on her hips. The large spanner in her left hand combined with the angry lines of her face seemed to be ill omens.

"Oi, brat." the old woman snapped. "Have you given up on your studies? Lunch breaks are thirty minutes long."

Qwenthur leapt to his feet. "Ah! I'm sorry! I wasn't keeping track of time!"

"This is no social club or commercial engineering firm, boy!" she bellowed with a ferocity never before seen by either young men. "This is the Legitimate Kingdom military! You are a member of the Thirty-Seventh Consolidation Manoeuvre Battalion's engineering corps - student or not! You exist to make sure its Object is in perfect order at all times! The Baby Magnum is your life! Understood?"

"Yes ma'am!"

"If you understand then get moving!"

Havia bit back a snicker as his terrified friend scampered away.

"What are you laughing about, punk? Think of your own position."

His tan seemed to steadily vanish over several seconds. "Oh... Fuck..."


	3. Chapter III

Awkward. That's how it felt for Qwenthur to clamber down into the cockpit, knowing he had spent more time in it than the current pilot.

Sitting in the absurdly expensive chair was not the 37th CMB's cute little Princess, but an orange clad woman who seemed to have abandoned all efforts regarding her self-presentation. SSAA Cunningham had no trace of make up so without her unusual hair colour Qwenthur might have thought someone else had invaded the Object's nerve centre. What's more, she was slouching - in an ergonomic chair, somehow this supposed Elite was slouching.

He shook his head in an attempt to dispel such thoughts and reviewed his job list, the reason he had to join her in the surprisingly small space.

"Wow, there really is a refrigerator in here. And a microwave oven... It's like a camper van." he thought aloud.

A squelching sound drew his attention back to the redhead. She was flexing her fingers against the pressure of gloves wrapped in insulation tape.

"Maybe this isn't going to work." she grumbled. "Sticky. Cleaning the console will be a pain if the adhesive runs fluid from heat."

Qwenthur sighed. "Coira, is it alright if I pull the freezer out for a bit?"

The redhead glanced at him over her shoulder. "Cunningham. I don't care, it's not my Object or my freezer."

The surprisingly cold look in her eyes unsettled him. He got to work quickly. The fittings for the power supply and brackets holding it in place were still solid, even after all the strain Melinda had put her war machine under last time. The freezer unit itself was unharmed so the cockpit would not ice-up nor the cooling system overheat. The fridge was the same. So was the microwave and its special coating. Next up was the ejection system.

"I'll be looking at the safety and ejection systems." he announced.

"Aye. Restraints secure, but a bit loose. Tighten them up and make sure to recalibrate the stabilisers for my greater mass."

The belts are loose? Greater mass? Havia did say she is muscular...

"Then I shall do the recalibration first."

He had grown very familiar with every part of the huge machine, though this time he didn't know what values to expect from Cunningham in the pilot seat. He knew Melinda's weight and centre of gravity and the battalion staff worked hard to keep the former consistent, so the ejection stabilisers never needed more than a few tweaks. Altering the settings was potentially dangerous - even lethal if done poorly.

Bad luck working on these, according to the engineers. Thus, it always became his job. He got to chat with the Princess because of that, so it wasn't all bad.

The computer chimed as it finished taking measurements through the sensors built into the chair. Qwenthur's eyes widened.

"Oi, seriously? That's a major overcorrection. There must be some mistake. You'd smash into the back of the cockpit."

The redhead snorted and slapped her hand next to the ejection button. "It's probably accurate. The technology has been well tested, no? That's the same device you always use and the First Lieutenant has never had a failed ejection."

"No way, these readings are crazy." he insisted. "Your weight somehow is more than twice what it should be and pulling forward. The sensors must be faulty."

He looked up to find Cunningham watching him fret from over her shoulder. "I have a low centre of gravity. Call it 'foot heavy' if you like, but I'm sure the readings are accurate. If you don't trust them I'll make the adjustments myself."

Qwenthur sighed. "I don't get it at all. I'll ask granny to check them after I finish everything else."

"You're just a student, right?"

The blond nodded, picking up his tools and shifting to the left side of the cockpit. "Technically not an engineer, but I have been in a strange position thanks to my plans resulting our victories."

Cunningham arched a brow. "I suppose its inaccurate to call you a combat engineer as much as a student, though. Regardless, I will see to it that the ejection system is properly calibrated. You can move onto the next item on your list."

"Seatbelts." he read aloud, a suspicious frown pulling at his lip. "I don't want to touch those again."

"Then don't, I'll do it myself."

"Did you maintain your own Object while training? When did you find the time?"

"I learned a lot in the last few months." she shrugged in disinterest as she picked up a thick manual already open. "I get bored easily."

Qwenthur hummed in thought. "Then... Did you also learn how to pilot the Baby Magnum in the time since your transfer? I've been wondering for some time, but Froleytia didn't seem to think anything was strange. Aren't Elites trained for only their Object?"

The redhead turned several pages before responding. "You must have learned as much by now - either through your studies or in speaking to the First Lieutenant. An Object takes years to build, but it can be ready for any pilot any time. On the other hand, the difficulty of manning so many systems at the same time is almost impossible for as single person. Each object is like a obsessively picky cocktail connoisseur, and each Elite is a cocktail. If you don't make it perfectly the Object becomes more difficult to handle. At that scale, hundreds of tonnes and over a hundred weapons in addition to the drives and power regulation, ignoring a system for three can get you killed."

"Especially if the enemy Elite is in perfect sync with their own Object, or has an environmental advantage." he agreed. "In this case, the wrong cocktail has been served to the connoisseur. Isn't that a major issue?"

Cunningham shrugged again. "It's not like the connoisseur was served beer or wine. My Object may have been second generation but it was pushing past standard limits. It's not too different from Baby Magnum, though it has a few extra systems to manage. As the Major said, the difference in complexity should allow me to perform at an acceptable level."

Qwenthur shuffled around to her left and began checking the shielding in the console. "A specialised Object cannot be better than a general Object in every area. Was yours to try and compensate for the glaring weaknesses for unsuited terrain, for the off chance you have to fight there?"

"In a way, but not really, no." she muttered, thumbing past several pages. "Oceanic Driver - as the name suggests - is a maritime Object. On the ocean its no different from Baby Magnum, using powerful main guns to destroy Objects or bombard targets and the secondary weapons as required is the standard for Object warfare. Only so much can be done there with technology, so Oceanic Driver uses other factors to outperform an enemy Object."

"Agility? Does it have some drive system to increase its speed?"

Cunningham tilted her head. "Close. It floats using air cushions, which leaves it slower than electro static drive Objects like Baby Magnum. Oceanic Driver has large ballast tanks around its base like a skirt, which it can use to alter its centre of gravity as well as overall mass. What do you think of that?"

Qwenthur's hands stopped moving. "Ballast tanks... If you shift all the weight to one side it can turn in a tighter arc, for dodging as much as lining up a shot. If the tanks are all filled at once in combination with opposing thrust it could stop suddenly - conversely purging the tanks could allow a sudden burst of speed."

"Precisely. In theory Oceanic Driver should have a great advantage in mobility. Unfortunately, that isn't enough to make it worth over five billion euros - not when other methods grant more speed and agility without weighing down an already heavy Object with seawater and making it a bigger target with tanks."

"That's right." he sighed at her picking apart his thoughts again. "Deep Optical would tear something like that to pieces easily. It needs another means of competing with second generation Objects or else its little better than an overweight first generation."

"Got any ideas, battlefield student?" the Elite asked as she fixed him with those unnaturally green eyes. "Remember Water Strider? Mobility has a price. If your Object is bigger than most, even if it's more agile, how can you make it a true 'king of beasts' even so?"

Qwenthur frowned and thought hard. "Water jets could increase its agility further. It would have to take on water all the time."

"Not only that, but the effectiveness of water jets is suspect. Even if it is effective it could strain the Elite. There are ways to make water jets practical, but that's not the method chosen for Oceanic Driver."

"Then... The only option left is firepower, but you said-"

"That there are limits to our technology? So I did. Go back to the ballast tanks and think again. Don't be boring." Cunningham smirked, returning her attention to her manual.

"Ballast tanks... Technological limitations... Weapons..." he mumbled as the gears of his mind churned. "Wait... Storage tanks... Ammunition isn't usually a problem with standard main guns, but with a high fire rate there is a possibility of running out."

The Elite exhaled forcefully and sat straight. "I guess you are having trouble without seeing the Object in action. Oceanic Driver uses plasma canons powered by its reactor, but as powerful as it is if you fire too quickly the guns overheat. Seawater can be used as emergency coolant, so the next problem is energy consumption. Even an Object reactor has limits."

"Those are some amazing limits, though. Still, if an Object were to surpass those limits... It would have to be spare capacitors! Before going into battle the reactor's excess energy is collected in capacitors so the Elite can alleviate any strenuous power draw."

"There you go." she nodded, jabbing the book in his face. "Now I suggest you get back to work."

"I have another question though."

Cunningham blinked, then slouched back into the seat and turned a page. "What is it?"

"Can you pole dance?"

The Elite paused to glare at him from the corner of her eye. "Where did that come from?"

Qwenthur held up both hands in surrender. "Ah, wait, it's just that Froleytia and the Princess can, so I was wondering..."

"The Major works hard and the First Lieutenant has to stay strong enough to ignore the G forces of high speed combat, but it doesn't mean every woman can."

"Then, every Elite can?"

The redhead snorted and returned her eye to the manual. "Not every Elite, but most. Major Copacabana could if he tried."

The blood drained away from Qwenthur's face in record time. "Er, so you can't?"

"Indeed, its beyond my ability. Even if... No, absolutely impossible."

Qwenthur frowned at how care free she seemed about the turn he had taken the conversation. Froleytia would have gloated, the Princess would have either given off a sense of danger or ignored his provocation. Half the women on the base would either kick his ass or get so flustered they couldn't respond. For Cunningham to be so calm... It was kind of boring.

"Why not? You have similar training to the Princess."

"It's a matter of basic physics." she replied as she flicked through a dozen pages. "I understand how it works, but I won't break things on such a whim."

The blond student sagged and looked back at his task list. Coira Cunningham was chatty, but careful of her words. He wasn't going to get anything out of her.

"Er, sorry if I asked something that made you uncomfortable."

The Elite shrugged. "Adolescents have those kinds of thoughts. I saw plenty of it in hospital. Keep your apologies for when you actually mean them."

"No, I really am sorry." he insisted. "I'm just trying to find a way for the Princess to relax. I kinda thought a rivalry with you in something unrelated to Objects might help."

At that the woman in the chair sighed and put her manual aside. She leaned on the armrest and propped her chin up on her arm. "An Elite's wellbeing is of the utmost importance. He or she represents the collective might of an entire battalion, and every decision commands the fate of the battalion. If you want to help the Princess, ask Capistrano or one of the care-staff. It their jobs to know what to do, even if they can't do it."

"If they knew they would have done something by now." he reasoned as he began putting back everything he had moved. "Froleytia is busy and under a lot of pressure right now, so I can't ask her."

"So, I must not be under much pressure, then." Cunningham scoffed before sitting forward and resting her hands on her knees.

He ducked his head. "Well, I didn't mean it like that..."

"Brantini is in a strange position right now. She is uncomfortable, don't you know? Ever since she was assigned to this battalion she has been its Princess and nearly a thousand lives had placed their trust in her skills. At the moment there are no lives resting on her shoulders, there is no Object within reach, and to top it all off someone else is taking her place."

Qwenthur swallowed. "As I thought, she's having quite a hard time."

"That's an insulting understatement. If you understand her position then why are you spending your time talking to the very person who has taken her place? Have some awareness, Barbotage."

He ran a gloved hand through his hair and sighed. "Ah, I screwed up."

"Right now you should think of a question about the maintenance work you are doing, and then ask her instead of the Chief. Her head is full of the Baby Magnum anyway. You need to make her feel needed and relied upon - be an oasis of familiar burden for her to latch on to in the storm."

"Oi! We're here to work, not to wax poetic philosophy! Are you finished yet, boy?"

"Almost!"

"Almost doesn't cut it on the battlefield! Hurry up or I'll throw you out of my workshop with a shelf of textbooks!"

"Uwa, granny is pissed today too."

"That's Chief maintenance officer to you, student." Cunningham shot back. "Get finished and get out so I can call a real engineer down here to adjust the seat."

"Eh? Then granny will find out I slacked off! You said you'd do it."

The redhead narrowed her eyes at him, sending a chill down his spine with her cold tone. "Oceanic Driver doesn't use a chair. I can't do anything to this Object besides pilot it after only a week of study."

Qwenthur felt dread growing in his gut. "I don't want to die." he mumbled, slowly gathering his tools.


End file.
